Shades of a tree, shades of a leaf, shades of fragments making a personality in threes.
Pumpernickel playtimes laced with realtime memory mods - drill in your eyes the latest and greatest, newcasters keeping it fresh. Cotton candy congo lines grabbing up wires and pixels swirled together for the amusement park we’re walking through.
It’s not without some misunderstandings that leave me writing here, haphazardly and indulgently and without much bother.
Traversing around earlier made me think about little grasseleaves sprouting with legs and ladybug eyes, helicopter hats for lift off to drag them around the road – scattered though, the 16-wheeler needs to deliver the pesticides.
See how easy it is to smush together nonsense?
What impresses me is, well, this idea that a well-formatted letter could save worlds.
Although it could, and it will, it only saves your world.
The more you write the more you’ll find the sinking ship spurting out new holes until the wooden basin caves in. Saltwalkers scavenge the abandoned amber wine, blood redefined - hosted in the flesh and plucked off the vine of motorized highways.
Revisiting the past and writing it out feels like drawing into your arm and pressing harder until no graphite is left, just irritated cursive skin.
The riverport feels a lot more inviting than whatever these pigeons take these digital letters to no one in particular.
The lack of intelligible connection perceived just means you aren’t bored with linear expression with the why, whats, whose and where-whys properly defined.
You could write a well-formatted thought and package it with the hope it’ll do something, but I don’t think it does anything compared to just turning off the computer screen.
The computer world is full of nonsense, why should I be obligated to maintain sense in a spectrum of reality that doesn’t make sense?
There’s no such obligation, and so I fervently return this void contract while in palm. No, I do not crumple it, never. I remember the value of such ideals in a different place long ago.
When I used to write there used to be this abstract “other” that I would write to, but now I realize that “other” is myself, and there’s nothing more to reformat or be embarrassed about. Obviate no more!
Obeisance no longer!
Tucking my pocketwatch only to find the dial’s been broken for three years. It’s an ornament more than anything else. Leave the chain dangling and it grants you status, a magical visual wave. But status is worthless. To me, at least.
Shades, shades – shades of a person! Pluck a noun with an adverb to adjective and find yourself threading together the hillmount with white bees and a red sun, sucked out color, ashy dirt and pitch black clouds hosting its own stars.
Knit more and more! Barefooted running to start blotting out all your skin, crawling up too. Integrate into it. You are a part of things, not observer of things.
When I see people walking around the forested area around here it feels like they are another grazing part of nature. It feels right to see them under trees, not lounging in a car with a 128oz of frutose. But I learn to love both anyway! The former on its simplicity, and the latter on its absurdity.
Flash your icewrist, why not?
Writing out the day and the monotone contents that make up the slow march of living is something I would rather not bother with at this time.
What once may have been something interesting – that taunting thought of a journal – now feels all perverted.